


Gruß vom Krampus

by ssclassof56



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 04:22:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10712094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssclassof56/pseuds/ssclassof56
Summary: Napoleon and Illya have a strange encounter on St. Nicholas' Day.





	Gruß vom Krampus

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LiveJournal's Section7MFU for the 25 Days of Christmas 2015

Illya’s arm flew, anger fueling the swing, and the back of his hand smashed across Lasparri’s mouth.  
  
“Illya, no!” Napoleon called sharply. “That's exactly what he wants.”  
  
The bloodstained grin and and the unholy gleam in Lasparri’s eyes confirmed Napoleon’s words. Their captive licked the blood from his lips, appearing to savor it.  
  
Illya rubbed his sores knuckles. “Well, I will not listen to anymore of his—” English failed him, and he let loose a string of Russian execrations.  
  
Lasparri had been THRUSH Central’s golden boy, specializing in the extraction of information from captured UNCLE agents and their subsequent elaborate deaths for the entertainment of top officials. Word had reached Waverly a month ago that Lasparri and Central had fallen out, and that UNCLE’s Most Wanted was holed up somewhere in Germany. With orders to get to him before THRUSH did, Waverly’s top agents had worked tirelessly, finally tracking Lasparri to this cabin in the heart of Bavaria.  
  
Lasparri’s capture had been surprisingly uneventful. But even caught and tied to a chair, Lasparri knew how to inflict pain on his adversaries. While Napoleon and Illya searched and secured the tiny cabin, he recalled for them in loving detail the torturous deaths of the UNCLE agents THRUSH had turned over to him.  
  
“Remind me again why we don't just shoot him,” Illya hissed, and Napoleon chose to believe he referred to sleep darts.  
  
“Because we need him conscious and under his own manpower to make it back to the village.”  
  
“Not if we drag him. If you insist we use a sledge, so be it.”  
  
Lasparri’s laughter, soft and menacing, interrupted them. As Illya raised his hand in warning, Lasparri spat forcefully, and a small, red and white projectile landed in the middle of the floor. The bloody tooth started to hiss, and acrid gas erupted into the room, burning their eyes and singeing their throats.  
  
“Get out of here,” Illya yelled to Napoleon. Pulling his turtleneck up over his nose, Illya grabbed the back of Lasparri’s chair and dragged him out of the cabin into the snowy night.  
  
Napoleon was crouched on the ground, coughing and retching. Illya released the chair and plunged his face into the snow, hoping the cold flakes would ease the sting in his eyes and throat. Whatever toxin was in the gas began to do its work, and he fought to stay conscious. Behind him, Lasparri lay on his side where Illya had dropped him, coughing but still laughing softly.  
  
Neither agent was ever sure how long they spent in the snow, dazed and stricken, until a faint noise became an anchor for their awareness. The sound grew and was soon recognizable as the clank of a cowbell. The moon was almost full, and the snow-covered clearing around the cabin glowed softly. Two figures emerged from the trees, crossing toward them with a steady, measured pace. The agents struggled to their knees, Specials in hand, and even Lasparri twisted himself around to watch the strangers, his laughter temporarily silenced.  
  
Moonlight plays strange tricks, and from a distance the approaching figures seemed to have the forms of a bishop and a goblin. Napoleon rubbed a handful of snow into his stinging eyes and waited for the figures to resolve into more sensible shapes. They did not. He blamed the toxins and struggled to lay hold of a memory niggling at his gas-fogged brain.  
  
“What's the date?” he eventually croaked, his throat raw.  
  
Illya’s voice was a harsh whisper. “The fifth of December. Why?”  
  
“Either I’m hallucinating, or we're about to get a visit from Sankt Nikolaus.”  
  
An old man dressed in the vestments of a bishop stopped a few yards from the trio. He wore a crimson cloak draped over a gleaming white cassock. Rich gold embroidery sparkled in the moonlight. His hair and beard were white, both worn long, and a crimson and gold mitre topped his head. He carried a gold crozier in his right hand, and his left arm was wrapped around a large golden book. Lasparri’s soft laughter resumed.  
  
At the sound of his insolent mirth, the bishop’s companion leapt toward Lasparri with an inhuman howl. If it was a costume, it was the best one any of them had ever seen. The creature was a horrid combination of man and goat, covered with matted black hair. A long tongue, as crimson as the bishop’s cloak, licked the air. Its face was that of a devil, and large curling horns extended from its head. A chain encircled its waist; Nikolaus held the other end in his left hand, and with a slight tug he brought the grotesque creature to heel.  
  
Illya lurched to his feet, training his Special unsteadily at their bizarre visitors. He swayed and staggered toward Nikolaus, who quickly closed the distance. The bishop grabbed his elbow and gave him the crozier as a support.  
  
“Thank you,” Illya said awkwardly, as he leaned heavily on the staff with one arm and kept his Special pointed with the other. “There are no children here, little father. It would be best if you and your...companion went on your way.”  
  
“I come not bearing gifts, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, but as the keeper of this foul beast.” His voice was deep and mellifluous, and Illya started as it pronounced his full name. “Tonight is Krampusnacht, and we have an appointment with the master of this place.”  
  
Nikolaus turned toward the THRUSH killer, who lay on his side in the snow, still bound to the chair, grinning maniacally. “Pietro Lasparri, rise and stand before us.”  
  
Napoleon struggled to his feet and stepped closer to Nikolaus. “That’s not possible. Lasparri is a dangerous criminal in the custody of the U.N.C.L.E.”  
  
Nikolaus turned his piercing blue gaze on the agent. “Napoleon Solo, the full record of his offenses is known to me. As such, on this night, I have the higher claim.”  
  
At Napoleon’s frown, he raised a shaggy white brow. “If my appearance and office do not convince you of my authority, then I shall provide a sign that does.” He removed his glove, revealing a silver and red ring. At a brush of his finger, the gem glowed and emitted a familiar signal.  
  
The agents exchanged confused glances. How this strange old man came into possession of a Waverly ring, they could not imagine, but it was the one symbol of authority they were trained to obey without question.  
  
Napoleon nodded, and Illya began to make his halting way toward Lasparri, using the borrowed crozier as a prop. Nikolaus’s call stopped him short. “The Krampus shall bring him forth.”  
  
At these words, the creature howled and bounded to Lasparri, cowbell jangling. Its claws ripped easily through the bonds, and with one powerful arm, it hauled the wild-eyed man to his feet. In the other hand, it wielded a bundle of birch branches, beating the THRUSH killer and driving him toward Nikolaus.  
  
Illya crossed to where Napoleon stood, offering him a share of the crozier. Together they watched the Krampus beat Lasparri like a mongrel dog. “What is happening here?” Napoleon asked.  
  
“My theory is that I am currently unconscious and all of this is a delusion,” Illya replied.  
  
Lasparri made an attempt to run, but the Krampus was too fast. It grabbed him by the neck and reigned blows down on him furiously. “A very satisfying delusion,” Illya added.  
  
At last Lasparri stood before Nikolaus, trembling but defiant. The Krampus crouched next to him, its low, guttural growl a continual reminder of its presence. Nikolaus opened his golden book.  
  
“Behold, Pietro Lasparri, the record of thy year and all the years of thy life.” He tilted the book and flipped several pages. The agents could see they were covered with line upon line of small black writing, the ink as dark as coal.  
  
Lasparri looked from the book to Nikolaus and laughed. “Thou fool,” Nikolaus declared, “this night thy soul shall be required of thee.”  
  
Alarmed, Napoleon raised a finger and interrupted, “We were sent here to capture Lasparri and take him into custody. UNCLE will see that he finally faces justice.”  
  
“Then the same purpose unites us,” Nikolaus said, and addressed Lasparri. “I call heaven and earth to record this day against you, that I have set before you life and death, blessing and cursing. Today is the day of reckoning, Pietro Lasparri. In the name of the Christkind, do you renounce the black deeds written in this book? Will you turn from them in repentance and go with these men to face mankind’s justice?”  
  
Nikolaus stepped closer to Lasparri, his face softening. His voice, when he spoke again, was tender, and the love of a father shone in his eyes. “Pietro,” he pleaded, “choose life, that thou may live.”  
  
Lasparri was silent. Napoleon looked at the Krampus, crouched in anticipation, its claws scraping at the snow. Despite everything, he hoped Lasparri would choose life and UNCLE justice over the alternative.  
  
It was not to be. Lasparri’s face contorted until it was as grotesque as the creature’s at his feet. He lunged for Nikolaus, but the Krampus was upon him, pinning his arms behind his back. Trapped, Lasparri spat in Nikolaus’s face and hurled curses at him.  
  
Nikolaus closed the book and stepped back, his face a portrait of ineffable grief. The Krampus wrapped one arm around Lasparri’s neck and squeezed until his eyes rolled back and he fell limply to the ground. With quickness that spoke of long practice, the Krampus pulled a large sack from behind, stuffed Lasparri inside, and swung the sack onto its back. The sack began to stir, and the Krampus stilled it with a kick of one cloven hoof.  
  
Struggling to process what he had just seen, Napoleon followed the familiar reflexes of gentlemanly curtesy. He stepped forward and offered Nikolaus his handkerchief. The old man wiped his cheek and mopped his tears. “Thank you, Napoleon Solo. You shall have this back again.” He tucked the cloth into his sleeve.  
  
As the Krampus took its place behind him, Nikolaus faced the agents, the light of fatherly affection in his eyes. Napoleon braced himself, waiting for the book to be opened to his pages. Surely his list of offenses would be nowhere as black or extensive as Lasparri’s. And there would be heroic deeds there to balance them. Meeting Nikolaus’s gaze, such rationalizations dissolved in the light of virtue and love that shone from the saint. Napoleon decided any goodness he might claim was the feeble glow of a candle, and now he was looking into the sun.  
  
Nikolaus smiled knowingly and clasped the book to his chest. “Ponder these things in your heart, Napoleon Solo.”  
  
Napoleon nodded, feeling faint with relief. He stepped back to the support of the crozier. Nikolaus donned his glove, covering the Waverly ring, and raised his hand in benediction.  
  
To Napoleon he intoned, “Pax Domini sit semper vobiscum.” _The peace of the Lord be always with you._  
  
The familiar words, long unheard, stirred a host of memories in Napoleon’s mind. The smell of incense. The chanting of the priest. His family around him. A feeling of warmth and well-being pervaded him as he gave the response. “Et cum spiritu tuo.” _And with your spirit._  
  
Nikolaus turned to Illya and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Христос рождается!” _Christ is Born!_  
  
At these words, Illya was a small boy in the lap of his babushka. He saw the icons in her gnarled hands, stealthily removed from their hiding places in fear of the authorities. He felt the peace and sleepiness of a malyshka cradled in the arms of his grandmother. It was for her he whispered the response, “Славите его!” _Glorify Him!_  
  
Nikolaus held out his hand for his crozier. The agents passed it back and at once found it very difficult to remain standing. As Nikolaus and his grisly companion walked back toward the trees, he seemed to take their consciousness with him. The agents sank into the snow. The last sound they heard before darkness engulfed them was the faint clanking of a cowbell.  
  
~~~  
  
A fresh fall of snow brought Napoleon back to awareness. The moon was hidden, and the clearing shrouded in darkness. Illya lay several feet away. Napoleon crawled over and shook him awake. Illya opened his eyes and sat up quickly. “Nikolaus? The Krampus?”  
  
Napoleon looked around. “Gone.”  
  
They looked to the chair lying in the snow and slowly approached it. Lasparri was still in his bonds, dead, his face frozen in the grotesque mask of hatred that had been his final choice.  
  
“What exactly was all that?” Napoleon asked. “A delusion, like you said?”  
  
“A shared delusion? Is there such a thing?”  
  
“Mr. Waverly won’t be happy that Lasparri escaped justice.”  
  
“Escaped? Hardly.” Illya prodded the chair with his boot. “He met a more fitting end than anything we could have devised.”  
  
Napoleon’s brow furrowed. “We can’t put that in our report. And I didn’t think you believed in this sort of thing.”  
  
Illya squatted and closed Lasparri's glassy eyes. “I do tonight.”  
  
The agents carried Lasparri’s body inside and secured the cabin. Tomorrow they would return with a team from the Munich office. Tonight they had a long, cold walk back to the village and its tiny inn.  
  
All too soon, Napoleon was awakened by the plump hausfrau who ran the inn. “Herr Solo, you must wake now. Men downstairs wait to see you.” As he rubbed sleep from his still tender eyes, Napoleon heard her move across the room to give the same message to Herr Kuryakin.  
  
She made disapproving noises at the piles of wet clothes they had left on the floor. Then she laughed. “Ah, I see Sankt Nikolaus was here. So good to leave presents for such messy kinder.” She was chuckling as she closed the door behind her.  
  
Napoleon and Illya met at the door, where they found their boots, clean and dry, lined up neatly. Each overflowed with traditional Nikolaustag gifts of fruit, nuts and chocolate. Small birch twigs were also tucked among the treats.  
  
Napoleon plucked a twig from his boot, twirled it between his fingers, and pondered. He cleared his throat, his usual suave assurance abandoning him. “You know, I suppose it is a bit selfish of me to run out on our reports as often as I do.” The next words were hard to articulate, and Illya’s patent amusement did not make it any easier. “Forgive me?”  
  
“Of course,” Illya nodded, managing to imbue the gesture with a munificent grandeur. After a moment, he said, “Sometimes my words can be—“  
  
“Acid?” Napoleon interjected.  
  
“Unduly harsh,” Illya finished, rolling his eyes. “I also ask forgiveness.”  
  
"Done," Napoleon said, anxious to put the awkward moment behind them. “There's something else here.” He pulled small packages of gold tissue and crimson ribbon from each boot.  
  
Illya found a medallion nestled in the tissue. A familiar icon of Nikolaus was embossed on its golden surface. Illya smiled. He pulled the chain over his neck and dropped the medallion under his pajama shirt.  
  
Napoleon unwrapped a snowy white handkerchief. In the corner, a set of entwined initials, an N and an S, were embroidered in sparkling gold thread. Napoleon Solo or Sankt Nikolaus? Napoleon grinned. Something else to ponder.  
  
~~~  
  
The autopsy and toxicology reports from Medical found no definitive cause for Lasparri's death. The file was officially marked Act of God.


End file.
